


Hard Landing

by Quandtuniverse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is an angel who didn't fall in love so much as tiptoe vaguely towards it, Blanket Permission, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Footnotes, Gay Panic, M/M, Pining, Repression, inner turmoil, until he suddenly realized where he was going and promptly tripped over his feet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quandtuniverse/pseuds/Quandtuniverse
Summary: Aziraphale has fallen.In love, that is.An introspective ficlet following his thoughts one certain night in 1941.





	Hard Landing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Ariel for reading and giving me suggestions. Special thanks to Tesla for the alcohol advice.

The problem, Aziraphale had decided, was _feelings_.

There had been far too many of them in the past two hours.

First, there was pride.* Then surprise. Betrayal. Annoyance. Surprise again. Disbelief. Hope. Panic. A different kind of panic, one induced by a ride in Crowley's new car.**

*Technically, a deadly sin, but surely bamboozling Nazis had to count for something, right?  
**He'd had it since 1926, but in immortal terms, it might as well have been five minutes.

Conspicuously absent from that list was the feeling that happened in between the two bouts of panic, which Aziraphale was now trying very hard not to think about, as he stood at the door of his bookshop, watching Crowley hover at the side of the Bentley, a hesitant hand against the door handle.

If this had been a normal evening, Aziraphale would have invited him in, offered a drink, and spent a few hours catching up with an old friend.

This was not a normal evening.

"Thank you," he said simply, firmly clutching the bag of books Crowley had saved. "For the ride. And. You know."

Crowley seemed to be getting the hint, although he made no move to leave just yet.

"We'll catch up later," he added bluntly. "I need to... check the inventory." 

Crowley nodded.

"I'll see you around, angel," he said, a frustratingly ambiguous expression on his face, and not just because of the sunglasses. The following second of silence stretched for what felt like an eternity, until Crowley finally got back into the car in the most laid-back way possible, before immediately contradicting himself and nearly tearing up the asphalt as the car roared down the street.

Aziraphale watched it go, then fumbled to open the door, nearly tripped himself through the entrance, and slammed it shut behind him with his back, his free hand jumping up to his chest as he tried to control his deep, heaving breaths. He didn't bother to turn on the lights as he immediately made for the kitchen, dumping the bag on a side table, and started to fix himself a cup of hot cocoa*. When he was done, he brought it to his lips, only to decide he'd rather have something a tad stronger than cocoa, and added a shot of cinnamon whiskey. 

*As an angel with standards, he mostly kept to the rations, but he _always_ had extra milk for cocoa.

He went to the backroom and dropped onto the sofa (cocoa miraculously unspilled) and nursed the heat in his hands for a minute, before downing half of it in a single gulp.

Deep breaths.

It was unusual for Aziraphale to sit in the dark like this. His free time was largely spent reading, and as he did not sleep, he had little reason to turn off the lights. Even during the Blitz, he carried on as usual, angelic protection ensuring he wouldn't violate the blackout.

In some ways, it was... calming. Dulling his senses just enough.

Once the initial tension was past, he leaned back, letting the heat, the whiskey, and the darkness wash over him. He relaxed, more or less, and turned inwards. To address a certain "Feeling".

He hesitated to give it a name. His awareness danced around it. A prickling sensation seemed to overcome his heart as he pushed against it. Images flashed in his mind, a lanky figure clad in all black hopping most inelegantly down a church aisle, flanked on either side with candles and eerie moonlight beaming down through the stained-glass window like a veil...

He almost dropped his cocoa.

Eighty years it had been since they last spoke, and here he was, fretting alone in the dark.

The problem was _feelings_.

The problem was that when Crowley showed up, his heart leapt at the sound of his voice.

The problem was that when Crowley redirected the bomb, he realized his friend still cared about him.

The problem was that when Crowley handed back his books, all the pieces fell into place.

Everything he'd felt for centuries suddenly came into stunning clarity, filling him with elation until he was nearly bursting, a feeling so good, so powerful, so striking, so moving, it left him dumbstruck until Crowley, picking his way through the ruins, had glanced out over his shoulder and called, "Are you coming?"

Aziraphale was well-read. He enjoyed every genre, even romance, which as an angel he admired mostly in hypothetical terms. Suddenly, for the first time ever, he understood.

He was in love. 

Love! Of all the feelings, surely love was a good one!

But it wasn't. It couldn't be. Never mind the joyful fluttering of his chest. It couldn't possibly be a good thing. Not when he had fallen—

The word rattled in his mind. _Fallen_. He laughed. Pathetic! An angel! A demon!

He drained the rest of his cocoa and covered his face with his hands.

Why, of all people, did it have to be a demon?

Even as he thought that, he knew there was no point to asking the question. It had to be Crowley. No angel, no demon, no human, nobody in Hell or Heaven or Earth or anywhere, could even come close to being Crowley. A million little memories showered down on him, kindnesses, questions, temptations. Aziraphale had been falling all the while. He hadn't realized it until he hit the ground.

He sighed deeply. 

The last time they'd spoken, Aziraphale had made a terrible comment. "Do you know what trouble I'd be in if they knew I'd been fraternising?" The jab that had pushed Crowley away now turned towards him. It was so much worse than fraternising now. Despite himself, Aziraphale had gotten used to feeling wicked. Centuries of the Arrangement had chipped away at him. But this wickedness, this shame, this guilt, this—

Happiness—

No matter what he told himself, it was happiness— 

it was beyond anything he was prepared to cope with. 

He stared blankly at the ceiling, expecting something to happen. Divine punishment, maybe. But there was nothing but the sound of a distant clock ticking and the pounding beat of his heart. 

The only though on his mind was, _I wish Crowley were here_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Did you know that in aviation terms, a hard landing is one with an impact on the landing gear of 2.1Gs or more?  
> That has nothing to do with the fic, but now you know.


End file.
